


The Marauders and the Hyperion's Herd

by TheMarauderBandit



Series: The Marauders [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts, Marauders, Marauders' Era, Pre-First Wizarding War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 03:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4331700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarauderBandit/pseuds/TheMarauderBandit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Potter started school in 1971, and these are the ensuing adventures. Marauders-era novel-length fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr. J. Potter

_I. Mr. J. Potter_

 

The summer days were slipping like cool creek water through James’ fingertips. Leaves were transforming like magic to ashen gold diamonds along the riverbank where the adventurous boy had spent most of his holidays. Early on, in June, James had found that when the days were too scalding hot, taking the little set of plastic cars Aunt Jubilene had gotten him for his eleventh birthday and floating them down the river proved very entertaining. Whenever Missy wasn’t away at piccolo lessons and Eddie wasn’t trekking about in the Alpines, the three of them raced the toys through the currents. Whoever lost had to jump into the icy cold water-- and often, there was all manner of misconduct to ensure that the race would not be won. Their glory days were coming to a close, unfortunately.

 

With Eddie set to go off to Wilson’s secondary school to fulfill his parents’ dream of having some sort of genius in the family, and Missy off to a grammar school in Southern France (which all six of her sisters had gone to before her, she had complained while skipping rocks at Eddie’s wading figure), James was wishing for the first time that he could be normal. His two best friends, of course, had no idea that he wasn’t as ordinary as his wealthy home life in Dahlia’s Dwelling seemed to suggest.

 

It would be hard to explain to them that while they would be poring over their notes on Alexander the Great next summer, he would be worrying about Wendlen the Witch and her obsessive magic tendencies.

 

While James hadn’t received his eagerly anticipated letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the young boy had no reason to believe he wouldn’t be thoroughly invited and that the letter wouldn’t come in the near future. Both his mother and his father were considered full of magic-- his family had been pureblood for centuries. Finding other pure-bloods, half-bloods, or any-bloods of his kind was near impossible this section of Britain. Finding friends was even harder.

 

He was just a scraggly-haired brat with a strange array of animals (when he first moved to Dahlia’s Dwelling, Goosebump the toad had still been alive), but he’d found a pal over sharing the last broken wax Blue Violet crayon in primary, and MIssy’s company came not long after (from America, no less). She’d been enthralled with his Russian Blue; and Eddie with his fantastic collection of exotic toys that seemed to fill every corner of his house. Their journeys together had stretched for five long years now-- but James grimly suspected that by the school year, his only friends would be his beloved animals and his robes.

 

***

 

Blue ball laden with a glossy layer of painted constellations was passed across the palms of mud-caked fingers to be tucked beside James’ arm, hugging to his abdomen. Gravel pitched beneath worn trainers, sky glazing over candy apple red as the young boy made his way alongside the babbling brook. Cotton candy clouds glinted vainly into the rippling shudders of waves swishing by, but rather than appreciate the beauty, James continued by with hardly a blink. Leaves swaying in a complicated dance routine waved down at his feet, trying to swipe away the storm clouds creasing and building above a head of chronically ruffled hair.

 

His legs seemed to be working automatically, moving him from the stray dirt path to the bland grey of cement pathways that began leading James to the familiar cove of cozy houses that were cornered among the warm Dahlia’s Dwelling.

 

As he turned onto Stonecliff Circle, his mind sauntered back to the paper bag he must’ve left back on the river’s harbor-like shore. His mother had made the daring adventure down the winding streets to bring the three of them roast beef sandwiches. Missy had managed to sneak away her gran’s pack of cream puffs, however, so they’d taken the bits of bread from her sandwich to toss half-heartedly at the wandering ducks along the bank. He hoped one of them wouldn’t choke on the bag. Upon coming towards the end of Stonecliff, James began to search for the beauty of his house, rather than the numbers that would have identified it. He was sure the number was 23… or 93. Something like that. Up the steps of the chestnut cottage, past water sprinkling onto bronze wolves frozen among kept and styled bushes of carnations, columbines, and capers, past looped golden words reading:

 

_Potter Residence_

_63_

_(ah, yes… that was it)_

 

he went. His free hand brushed against the railing, sliding over the newly-polished surface as easy as butter. Above him stood twin glass doors, sharpened and and sparkled like the diamond his father had gotten his mother for Christmas. The handle bowed easily at the will of his touch, and he slipped his small little body into the marble entrance.

 

Without wiping the dirt off, toed shoes were strewn towards the wall, and his plastic ball went bouncing in the general direction of the toy closet. While his own room was located on the second floor near the flower balcony, his parents had been telling him since before he could talk that every floor was as much his as it was theirs. It was with that languid thought that he slid around the staircase, socks barely squishing (but damp enough that he skated past his destination) and pitched himself away from the wall. Instead, he tripped over the metal bar separating the wooden floors from the kitchen’s doorway, opening into a sickly grey tile instead. And ahead, on the counter-- the holy grail of sweets.

 

_Apple fritters._

 

With close to no regard at all to the pot stewing above the stove (and how it was likely holding his dinner), James was climbing towards the counter through all means possible-- not limited to the kitchen chair being used as an impromptu ladder (which Periwinkle wasn’t allowed to do… but James wasn’t a cat, was he?) Before he could properly stretch across the counter to reach the elegant glass case, two warm arms had wrapped around his middle.

 

Had James been even an ounce bigger than his small size, Rosemary Potter might’ve had an ounce more trouble lifting him back to the ground.

 

Deviously innocent eyes dragged up to the crinkles deepened by smiles on his mother’s face, lips curling upwards as a warm towel embraced his dirty hands. Mrs. Potter was a beautiful woman-- James often remarked that he had inherited her toothpaste commercial smile, and the autumn hue at the apples of her cheeks often mirrored his own in family pictures. Aside from cloudy-day streaks rushing through her dark hair and shimmering sea eyes, there were similar in almost every way.

 

“Now, Muffin,” voice velvet like the dresses she so often adorned filled the empty kitchen walls, “you know our rules about mud in the house.”

 

“I was going to wash it off… along with the crumbs from the apple fritters!” Protected with a grin, James teased with his smiles, urging to to grow wider-- as sweet as the pastries his mouth was salivating for.

 

A wry eyebrow rode up her forehead. “And our rule about desserts before dinner.”

 

All he had to do was bat his eyelashes. “Please?”

 

“I… alright, James. One and _one_ only.”

 

Delighted movements had his hands tearing from the towel and reaching for the case above his head. With his mother’s graceful mercy, a particularly puffy fritter was settled into his squeaky-clean hands, her hips resting beside his shoulders as she smiled down.

 

“When your father gets home from the Ministry, I have a surprise for you both.”

 

The word “surprise” was like opening a large package on Christmas day-- eyes alight with fireworks of joy, James’ stomach curled and leaped at the aspect, both eyebrows softening, lips pulling together, pitting his teeth against one another to avoid instantly crying out to know more. Surely his father wouldn’t have to know if _he_ received the surprise early, right?

 

“Is it a large-ish surprise?”  
  


 

“James, no--”

 

“--a _cool_ surprise?”

 

“ _James_ \--”

 

“--a wizard-y surprise?”

 

“We’ve talked about you being difficult--”

 

“-- _pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease_?”

 

“Fine, but you’re only allowed to look at it.”

 

It was common knowledge that nothing but a smile reminiscent of his toothless, five-year-old self would guarantee the young Potter next to anything. His dear mother whisked away to an old bamboo box that James was always suspicious of. From what he knew of wizards (from annual family gatherings), they didn’t just have normal boxes. Slender fingers filed through the spare-paper box that had never been interesting enough to explore-- and the one time he’d been desperate enough to check, he’d only found newspaper clips and bills with dust collecting on them. With her trimmed nails, Mrs. Potter unsheathed a shabby old letter full of lumps and bumps as though the contents of the envelope had been jammed and packed haphazardly inside.

 

The moment that James had his hands on the coarse paper, he was touching and feeling around, turning it over to examine further. Beneath his thumb glimmered hard wax, marron under the kitchen lights. Four animals were separated on the seal by borders like canals to the pads of his fingers. His eyes were instantly drawn to only one of the four, however; the mighty lion, each of his features etched perfectly, from the fan of his whiskers to the daring slant of his eyes. The lion of Gryffindor. In awe, he close to stroked the address as well, his name like artwork in fresh emerald ink, swooped and curved by delicate hand. Where else could this letter have come from but Hogwarts?

 

Right then, James wanted to dig into that letter like he would dig into a Christmas feast. There must’ve been a particular glow to his face, because he could swear he could see the reflection of an overjoyed glint in his eyes against the paper. With the same excited, his eyes raced up to his mother’s face, lips trembling. Had he not been gripping the envelope so tightly, he might not have noticed it being eased from his hands.

 

“Is it--?” James giggled as his mother tucked it back away into the boring old spare-paper box.

 

“Yes, dear.”

 

“I’m accepted?” Only with a child’s voice could this level of triumph be reached, the sound amplified heartily from the wide angles of his grin.

 

Tucking a piece of unruly black hair away from her son’s face, Rosemary Potter laughed; akin to the sound that the owl wind chimes on their back porch produced. “Of course you are, Muffin. And you’re going to be the best wizard that ever went there!”

 

James wasn’t sure he was going to be able to keep his mouth shut long enough to wait and tell his two best friends (not realizing at the moment that he _couldn’t_ tell his two best friends). Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long at all before someone came that he _could_ tell. The front door opened with the sound of his father’s feet just as the sun began to saddle the horizon, like it did every evening since James had been born (not including Christmas).

 

Holding the letter behind him like a streamer of achievement, the youngest Potter bounded down the bannister and through the large entrance hall to greet Mr. Potter, whose radiant smile and charismatic twist of already friendly words had landed him a life-long job working with the Ministry. Chanting for his father (a cadence of “dad, dad, dad!”s over and over), many games of tag made him a blur up until he braked, heels skidding against hardwood; it wasn’t long before they resumed motion, helping him bounce up and down.

 

“It’s from Hogwarts! It’s from _Hogwarts_! Do you think Dumbledore himself wrote it? Will you finally teach me how to play Quidditch? I’ll be great as a beater, just like mum! I’ll even be a Gryffindor prefect, like you! Will you open it with me?”

 

In regards to his bouncing son, Caric Potter laughed warmly; and in regards to his wife’s loving (albeit exasperated) expression, he laughed even harder. Even though James despised it, even he couldn’t be angry at his father for ruffling his hair with ringed fingers. In fact, he even beamed up to him, clutching the sign of acceptance to his chest like a trophy of his inherited magic.

 

“Give yourself some time to breathe, son.” Hand firm on James’ back, he put up a crisp suit coat and began to herd the child into the general direction of the dining room. “We’ll open it later when we don’t have rumbling stomachs to distract us.”

 

“My stomach’s just fine!” Despite having caught sight of his mother setting out bowls of broth for them to eat, James ignored her and protested.

 

Still, Mr. Potter played as an usher and managed to convince James’ legs to the dark wood table. “Your stomach might be fine _now_ , but who’s to say it won’t be bothering you later?”

 

At that reasoning, James gave in, and as a family, they tucked in. He could hardly wait for the bowls to be dry and empty, having to sit through tortuous subjects (“How was your day, Rosie?” “Oh, just fine. Nurse Whitewood performed the wrong healing spell again. And you, dear?” “Well, I’m not the Minister of Magic, yet.” Cue laughing. “How about you, Jimmy How was your day?” “Fine.”) until his parents found it appropriate to finish their chatter and move on to the important things.

 

The bowls clanked as they were set into the sink, and at long last, the enveloped opener was passed to James’ eager hands. As though he’d been trained for this very moment his entire life, the blade easily against the top of the parchment. Out tumbled two slips of paper (though he did check inside the gold-shelled insides for more, just in case the lumps he’d seen earlier were important). He picked up the first one, and read:

 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

_of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY

 

***

 

 


	2. Mahogany

Chapter II: Mahogany

 

Only in passing had James heard of Diagon Alley. It was common subject between his parents, whether they should take him prematurely or not-- or save the magic for the right time. Not even the stone pathways laden with fallen ruby leaves, scuffling footsteps shuffling past as robes whispered past one another could have appeared in his mind’s eyes. His wildest dreams hadn’t prepared him for one of the greatest spectacles he’d ever seen.

 

To his left came the melody of animal’s song, owls hooting and singing out towards the masses, several others his size bounding in joyful plenty up and down the streets; James was half-tempted to look at one of the warty toads they had there, to replace the hole that Goosebump’s death had left in his heart. With Balthazar lowly crying on his shoulder, ruffling small umber wings; he was a proud long-eared owl, sitting tall on James’ shoulder despite his shorter stature, well trained for his young age of two years, James couldn’t bring himself to want more. Periwinkle looped and laced around his ankles, her soft blue-toned ears flattening and perking up at the chirping noises that resonated from a nearby pet store.

 

James was plenty content, with his parents behind him and his close animal friends at his side, to go wherever he was lead. There were shops by the thousands, carts being pushed around that advertised candies that sparkled and fizzed under a particular light, wands that snapped and flexed, able to bend around into a special pocket-sized edition, scoops of petrified bugs with unusual qualities, beans from the Himalayas, pebbles that Magshire McMurphy the Magical Masseuse had used in his therapeutic sessions, and it seemed unfair to favor one of the beautiful stores above the others.

 

Complying easily down a twisted maze of alleyways, James hardly noticed his mother’s guiding hand against his elbow, his eyes trained on the shops beside him rather than in front of him. To the side, underneath the shining glass was a sleek new broomstick, signs plastered beside it to publicize it’s fantastic speed, nimble maneuvering techniques and ability to turn a complete 360 degree circle; one sign even read: “Better than the revolutionary Nimbus 1000!” - A Quidditch Player.   
  
He didn’t have much time to admire whatever fantastic new broomstick this happened to be, however; soon, he was being dragged along into a darker bit of the alley, towards a thin, wearing shop with gold letters plastered above the creaking wooden door that James had to squint at to read. His mother didn’t stop (apparently she had known this shop by heart). After much deciphering, he managed to make out:

 

 _Ollivander’s: Makers of Line --_ no, that probably said Fine _\-- Wands since 332_ (or was that an 8?) _382 B.C._

 

Beneath rows and mountains of stacked boxes, narrow and shoved into all corners of the tiny shop, a small tinkle came out, a laughing bell that had James looking first towards the right row of shelves, and then the left. Out from the depths (he could’ve sworn the man simply apparated) came a hunched figure, face looking like paper; James was afraid to speak to him for fear of ripping him apart.

 

“Ah, yes.” The voice was as frail as the man, but carried an eerie tune that sent shivers down his spine. “Rosemary Flanco-- or should I say Potter, now, yes? You look as young as the day you stepped in here for your first wand. Twelve and a half inches, cherry. Plenty sturdy, and I remember that you did wonders working duals with it.”

 

Without a doubt, the old man, his very aura hazy, spoke towards his mother. James sneezed.

 

“Quite correct, Mr. Ollivander, as usual,” his mother beamed, eyes alight and her hand gripping a little harder at her son’s shoulder; James flushed, trying to rub the dust away from his nose as the attention was turned towards his father, and quite suddenly, this Ollivander man was a large amount closer to the three of them.

 

“And you, Caric Potter, you’ve always favored things of plenty. You and your wand were one of a kind, sir. Fifteen, composed of an exquisite cedar. Quite remarkable, especially in the charms field.”

 

Cascading down his back now, James could feel goosebumps rising up the hairs on his neck, large childish eyes blinking up towards the moons centered within Ollivander’s face, his gaze unyielding, judgmental and perceptive. As though measuring up his character, the man placed a hand to his chin and began to stroke near his bottom lip, looking him up and down; his eyes glanced towards a tape measure that seemed to be almost _vibrating_ on the desk (perhaps in excitement), but without moving towards it, Mr. Ollivander was shoving a larger box into his hands.

 

James pulled the wand out amidst the background noise of Mr. Ollivander’s misty description (“Eight and a quarter inches,” he was saying, “solid and compact, elm with troll whisker.”) but before he could get all five fingers around it, it was being replaced with another box, his eyebrows furrowing.

 

This one was lighter, both in color and in feel, and Ollivander was beginning to speak again. Cautiously, James waited until he was done to pick it up. “Seven inches. Pear. Unicorn hair and should be quite useful for charms, yes.”

 

It was dead in his hands, however, lifting the wand up and giving it a little flick in the direction of a flower pot; the buds began to dance in a swaying motion, each to a separate rhythm. While his heart leapt up in pride, Ollivander once again took it from his hands. He took a moment of consideration, whistled for a step stool that came tottering from the back rows, and pushed up onto it to the very top of one of the shelves. As though regarding a newborn baby, Mr. Ollivander cradled the box in his arms, and slowly, cautiously passed it to James.

 

Before he could even take the top off, static was pushing up his arms in anticipation, feeling something spark within his insides, like a lightening storm was plunging into his stomach. “Yes, yes. Mahogany, yes.” The man was whispering, and it sounded numb to his ears; James wasn’t sure if Mr. Ollivander was talking to himself, or to him. “Eleven inches, pliable. Plenty of power, excellent for transfiguration, Veela hair is a wonderful core, yes.”

 

Fire had erupted now, not externally, but his hands were buzzing with the warmth as he picked up the longer wand, and without even so much of a wrist movement, there were sparks dusting the walls of the shop, shooting around the ceiling. Ollivander gave a short clap, and it seemed as though the stool he’d been using earlier itself was cheering for him, his parents grinning and laughing and hugging him.

 

With a single, final, “yes”, Mr. Ollivander urged the wand from his hands, but James was reluctant to let it go. It was as though the wand itself was begging him to continue to hold it, though he very carefully allowed it to be eased into a box, fixed on the process of it being wrapped beneath brown paper, tied with a yarn string. It was handed towards his mother, but the moment that they were out of the dusty, rather foreboding shop, James was taking it back to tuck under his own arms.

 

So entranced with the new gift, more fantastic than he ever could’ve imagined, James stared down at it, the dirty cobblestone beneath his sneakers blurring into a fuzzy backdrop, his lips pinched together in concentration-- oh, the things he could do with this. He wasn’t sure how far out of the alley they’d gotten, his mind a blank slate when he looked up only at the feeling of his father ruffling his already plenty-rumpled hair.

 

“I’m off to go buy your books for you, kiddo.” Maybe he’d gotten the blindingly-white smile from his father, dimples shoving at the corners of his lips, the shadows of the tall buildings surrounding them casting new shadows onto Mr. Potter’s face that James hadn’t necessarily seen before. “Why don’t you go with your mother and go get some robes fitted?”

 

And he did, quietly and softly, even if his father had taken both Periwinkle under one arm and his wand in the other; the flutter of wings introduced Balthazar’s arrival back onto his shoulder, though he hopped expectantly onto Rosemary’s elbow as they approached a wide, travertine shop with a swinging sign above it, carved with the words ‘Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions’. This shop smelt faintly of brewing spearmint tea, but mostly like mothballs and the musk of the deepest parts of a grandmother’s closet; through everything was folded neatly, fresh and crisp and ready for purchase. His eyes came upon several shimmering robes, like ripples of water that reminded him of his creek, upon purple robes with yellow stars and yellow robes with turquoise stars, upon those hung above the ceilings for decoration, and onto a small round table, dressed up with several clothing items.

 

They were the Hogwarts houses, gloves and hats and scarves and ties all nicely arranged, his eyes drawn to the gold and red. “Mother, can I--?” He started at once, but was cut off not by denial of buying something before he was sorted, but a stout woman with curly brown hair pinned back in a hurry. She scuttled over to the pair, and frantically shoved some of the loose strands behind her ear, though her smile was slow and gentle towards James.

 

“Come along, dear, I already have a group of students in the back, just right this way.” He noticed callouses on her large hands, fingers bloated like sausages, just like the rest of her. Over her shoulder, she smiled at Mrs. Potter. “And dear lady, there’s apparel just that way that I think would appeal to you _nicely_.”

 

Much to James’ dismay, his mother did go off towards the suggested area of women’s robes, left along with this strange, harried woman that he wasn’t particularly fond of. She was like Aunt Jubilene, but fatter, rougher, and more unfamiliar.

 

He was lead through a small cove of jet black robes that ranged from being able to fit a rat to being able to fit an ogre, herded back towards a grouping of pedestals scattered out in front of several large mirrors, which were murmuring off-hand comments towards each of the customers it reflected. Towards the corner came a snapping sound, and there stood a man-- or perhaps a tall teenager with seriously defined features snarling out comments back at the mirror.

 

Pale and sharp, the stranger was reminiscent of the terror-like feeling that Ollivander had put into James’ stomach. Perhaps they were related; it was then that he noticed the hair reaching towards his back, more silver than blonde, though his eyes were piercing and young, lips soft and pushed together as he watched pins weave in and out of his robes, pooling at his ankles with green decor.

 

_Slytherin._

 

Quickly, James turned away, and stepped onto one of the only open circles, right next to a shorter student, his skin dark like bark, cheeks worn and red from windburn. The flush of his round cheeks only made the oak eyes clearer to James, and he turned towards his tubby neighbor, eyebrows arching as tape measures floated through the air and worked to fit the folds of the robes nicely around him.

 

“How’s it going there, you look pretty nervous, your first time?” It was a wonder such a rapid emission of words could come from such small amount of breath, but James turned towards the elder and gave a quick nod.

 

The other student continued without another word. “Well, don’t worry about it, boy! Hogwarts is loads of fun, I’d know, I’m going on my fourth year. Oh, yeah, and I forgot-- my name’s Amos Diggory, you can come to me for anything. I’m Ravenclaw, but don’t worry, I’m hardly more intelligent than your average person.”

 

A noise came from James’ mouth, but that was all that he could manage as suddenly, robes were slipped over his head and being trimmed and cut and fit and poked by their own accord.

 

“I’m a half-blood myself, what’re you? Doesn’t really matter, now does it? Since Dumbledore’s been headmaster, bloods and affiliations hasn’t been a real conversation topic. The only person who truly cares about who you are is you-know-who, but I’d rather not go by his beliefs, don’t you agree, mate?”

 

James offered nothing more than a nod, his eyes going back towards the way that the robes were pinching around his waist, looking up just in time to see Amos hop off of his own stand, giving a little salute, and pulling on a sagging grey flat hat to cover up his lengthy hair.

 

“Anyways, I’ll see you around, boy!”

 

James blinked back towards the mirror, examining his shocked expression within the glass, his hazel eyes bright with confusion, eyebrows twisted and burrowing down; it didn’t take long at all for the robes to be fitted, though by the time they were pulled off of him and settled into a package by Madam Malkin herself, James was the only Hogwarts student left in the shop. His mother slipped out a few golden galleons for the robes, as well as a pair of silky blue mittens for herself, and they continued on the way, James not saying a word about how strange these Hogwarts folk actually seemed to be.

 

In the center of the street, surrounded by wizards of all shapes and sizes and smells, his mother tugged him along, and there, they met their father. Just to his left was a glittering gold ball, whizzing around the air, occasionally fluttering it’s small wings and then exploding into fireworks that spelled: Lilian Levar’s Quidditch Store -- buy one set of bludgers and get one set free! With his arms stuffed full of packages that definitely weren’t just his schoolbooks, Caric Potter moved forward and to James’ side, grinning at him. The young eleven year old got glimpses of a small black cauldron, stuffed to the brim with bottles and bags of strange herbs, as well as a quill feather that rustled beneath the wind, two separate bottles of ink (one black and one red), and the brim of a telescope, golden, he suspected.

 

Periwinkle nibbled at the ankles of his jeans as they moved through the crowds of Diagon Alley, finishing the day with a nice warm drink of ginger ale at the Leaky Cauldron, a wonderfully stifling place that reminded James of the undergrounds, though with light flooding through windows (that should’ve been facing brick buildings) and occasional pops from practicing potions masters. With stale cup in hand, James trailed after his parents as they discussed the books he’d be learning from (“Are they still using Dorace Freedman? Bagshot’s got much better information about the Hobbstar Trials, I don’t know what old Binns is thinking.”) It had completely slipped his mind that this day was August 18th, the last day he’d be seeing Eddie and the second to last day he’d be seeing Missy until the school year.

 

Somewhere in the rolling hills of England, pumped a train that James had failed to see off.

  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additionally, I know that this so far has been the James Potter show, but not to worry! Things are not only going to pick up, but soon we're going to meet some key players, such as Sirius Black, Severus Snape, and Lily Evans! Hell yeah!


	3. "You Smell Like a Dumpster"

_Chapter III: “You Smell Like a Dumpster”_

 

It was 3:26 AM.

Or so his alarm clock was telling him; at this hour of the night, consumed in total darkness, it was hard for him to see the little white numbers properly. Early enough that he could hardly see, and already his stomach was a boiling mass of total excitement.

In the silence of his room, James had plenty of space for his mind to stretch out and try to touch the Universe’s edge with his imagination. Maybe that wasn’t even enough to contain the nervous energy bubbling up from his very core. There was nothing that he wanted more than to finally grab hold of his wand again and dive into the world of magic. It was a world he’d been brought up on, sat down on his father’s knee to listen to thousands of wonderful stories about. It was on today, September 1st, that’d he be experiencing the world for himself.

Moonlight flooded through the windows at his side, sparkling occasionally between floating tendrils of clouds, teasing and taunting the satellite, causing lines to crease across the carpet of his floor, as though his window was stretching itself thin trying to protect him from the light. In just a few days, he’d be seeing the moon from an entirely new perspective, high on the astronomy tower with his new golden telescope, squinting out against the constellations. The thought only made it harder for him to get to sleep, and so James scratched a hand through unruly hair, and rolled to his feet, tugging one of lighter covers over his shoulders. The carpet was soft against his bare feet, but he tugged the creaking door open, and tiptoed through the hallways, past his parent’s door, and down the staircase. Past the kitchen he went, the raw wooden floor like ice against his uncovered toes.

The door of his closet groaned like an old man’s back in protest at his forcing it open, just to catch a glance of all of his school things one last time. His parents had told him to take his robes, not to wear them, so he didn’t draw attention to himself (or _more_ attention, he should say). He was desperate to get them on, see the hem transform into a spiraling display of red and gold, see the patch above his chest swear his allegiance to the bravest house of them all. In his excitement, at 3:35 in the morning, James began to pack his things away into suitcases, tucking the wand into safety, between an extra pair of jeans and an old t-shirt that he was probably only going to wear when he was too lazy to allow his things to be washed.

Hours later, when the sun was on the rise, James could be found smoothing down Balthazar’s sepia feathers, the lovely owl ruffling himself with the importance of an old movie star; and he looked like he’d just come from the latest blockbuster, eyes golden and shining, beak nibbling affectionately at James knuckles as he nervously stroked down the owl’s head for probably the sixty-third time.

As the sun began to emerge from it’s game of hide-and-seek, his parents began to stir as well, and James, with bags as large as his bulging suitcase under bright, excited eyes, and hair that looked like a rat had temporarily taken home around his scalp, came bouncing down the hallway towards their room, feeling refreshed and ready as ever. Through their down, he leapt, and all but tackled his father’s rising form, pinning him down to the bed before the man could gather the energy to try and sit up again.

“Do you know what today is?” It was more of a screech than a cheer, and he was giving Periwinkle a run for her money (especially when she was hungry).

“Yes?” Still drowsy and slow with sleep, Caric Potter drew the words out to the best of his ability, hazel eyes still trying to clear the dream-haze from his vision. Movements were as elongated as his words, as though his entire mind was working through wading through molasses. From the left came a soft noise that meant that his mother was beginning to catch on, as well.

“It’s September First!” James plunged off of his father’s legs, which awarded him with a curse from his mother as she sat up quickly. Having landed quite successfully on his feet, James hopped off towards the door. “We have to go soon!”

“Mmm-- yes it is…” his father replied, two hands going over his eyes, just before the rest of his body folded back down into the pillows.

The next that James saw of his parents was for breakfast, both of them down several cups of coffee with a flash of anticipation in their eyes to match their son’s. Neither of them were awake enough to make breakfast, however, so James had several slices of toast, and at eight o’clock sharp, he was ready to be off to the train station. Rosemary fussed with his shirt first, and then looked through his suitcase (and packed his toothbrush, which he’d “forgotten” to put in), as well as several new pairs of socks. She tightened the strings around his books, and when that was finished, his father took up the luggage and stuffed it down into the trunk of his merlot Chevy Chevelle, leaning most of his shoulder weight into it to manage to pack it all in, and then he was off to the driver’s seat as James clambered into the back seat.

His mother handed him a circular cage, Balthazar’s unhappy yellow eyes poking out of one of the slits (he wasn’t sure he’d ever used this cage in his life), which James hugged to his chest, followed by a leather box in which Periwinkle was situated, mewling to herself in indignation, a melody of unhappiness from both of his dear friends.

The drive to the train station was a short one, giving the three plenty of time to park, heave the case back out of the trunk, and totter off towards the station. It was just a few minutes from ten thirty (giving them plenty of time to find a good compartment, his father remarked), and once they found an abandoned cart, his father gratefully deposited all of James’ things onto, and then they went strolling through the station. James figured they were quite the sight, his mother dressed up in her healer cloaks (she had a shift right after this) and his father wearing a dark pinstriped suit, and James himself wearing normal clothes, but tagging along beside a trolley full of all sort of strangely-shaped packages, a disgruntled cat, and a sleeping long-horned owl, head hidden underneath one arm.

Luckily for them, the station was bustling with all sorts of other students off to their own schools; they were wearing their uniforms, too, mostly dull pastel colors that flooded through the station among brunette and blondes, the musk of their clothes floating through the crowded air. Past great stone walls they walked, separated and littered with cracks and stones stuck with gum. James made a face, and turned towards the different platforms. There was a nine… and a ten.

For half of a moment, he felt relief. Wasn’t 9 and ¾ before 9? The relief flooded out of him when he remember back to his primary days that no… it wasn’t. Were he not with his parents, two fully-capable, experienced wizards, if they weren’t a half hour early, James was certain he would’ve felt something akin to panic.

Wallowing through the crowds, he caught fragments of his mother and father speaking behind him, while he tagged along and pushed around at people to try and find the train that would take him to probable heaven. “I could carry him--” his father was saying, followed by a “I don’t know about that, he’s a little old. I think he’ll be able to handle it?” tagged on by his mother.

“He’s only eleven, Rosie, I remember my first time--”

Oh, they were talking about _him_.

Twisting on his heel, James marched backwards, arching two eyebrows at his parents. “He’s only right in front of you, and he has no idea what you’re talking about, but he _should_ know.”

Pursed red lips came together, and Rosemary frowned down at her son, before nodding towards the large cement barrier that separated the two platforms from one another. Still embracing him in silence, his mother offered nothing more than her hand towards him, which James, in confusion, took.

“We’re going to be walking straight through that post, there. That’s how you get onto the platform. You mustn’t be scared, you won’t run into it. If you want, we can run into it, but I’ll be right beside you if you’re nervous.” The words processed slowly through James’ mind, and he squinted at the barrier. Of course.

A sudden thought pushed past his mind’s eyes, and he imagined what it would be like, rushing onto the platform holding tightly to his mother’s hand, that being the first time that anyone from Hogwarts saw him. Then his father would come next, pushing the trolley for him, because James couldn’t do it himself, and oh, the laughter that would get. Flushing red straight to his ears, the eleven-year-old shook his head, pulled away from his mother, and moved to his father’s side instead.

With a great shove, James managed to get the wheels scraping again, struggling significantly with the weight of the cart, determined to push it himself. Maybe it was a wizard thing that everyone was strong enough to push their own items around; an unspoken wizard thing that James already felt the need to complete. 

  
The young Potter began to struggle through the walls, and pushed his entire body forward along with the cart carrying a screeching Balthazar (who’d been woken up from his nap by the sudden change of drivers), lugging himself forward and forward-- they were going to crash, he was sure of it, and while his mind cried for his mother, he continued on. There might be other students watching.

Next he knew, he was on an entirely different platform; the lights were low (or maybe just obstructed by the filter of smoke from the great scarlet steam engine sitting proudly at the lip of the depot), and there was a mass of bodies. James had never seen such an odd collection of people before, their robes sweeping away the dust of the station properly, the chatter sprouting out strange words that he’d only read in his brief skimming of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi (by Phyllida Spore). Except perhaps in Diagon Alley.

There was something even better about this train station, children hanging like rags out of the windows to kiss and hug their parents and family members; there were younger siblings protesting and waving away, trunks being pushed and carriages filled with snapping, sparkling charms that danced around and out the windows, children clapping and laughing, their sound like music in his ears. Though he had arrived plenty early, there wasn’t much more space on the train.

“Look, over there, there’s a fourth year whose father is pushing _his_ cart.” Came a warm voice, and James turned, looked up and shifted in discomfort, having not noticed his father’s sudden appearance through the wall.

Well, what if he wanted to be _cooler_ than that fourth year?

Even then, he reluctantly allowed his trolley to be taken over by his father, followed by his mother (who had also magically appeared), settling her hand on his shoulder. What if the fourth year wasn’t a real wizard and it was still an unspoken rule that they were supposed to be able to push their own things to the train? About halfway through their walk towards the train, Rosemary knelt down to frame James’ face with both hands, her smile weakening as something wet began to form in her eyes.

“Look at you,” she softened out, and it reminded James strongly of his grandmother seeing him in his Sunday best for the first time. “Off to Hogwarts, just like all the other kids. I never imagined my little boy--”

And then she was turning away, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her healer’s collar, sniffling and refusing to look at him for a good long time. Awkwardly, James straightened the edge of his shirt, looked away. Luckily, his father happened to notice Rosemary’s sudden explosion of emotion, and turned James away from her, leading him off towards the train, giving a fond little smile in his wife’s direction that James couldn’t understand. (It was just school, right? He wouldn’t be dying, or anything… right?)

“While your mother, erm--” Caric cleared his throat, and began taking long strides down the length of the train, “ _composes_ herself, why don’t we find somewhere for you to sit? It’s a long journey from here to Scotland.”

Words foamed in his mouth, but he couldn’t produce the noises, worried as he was for his dear mother, so he just nodded and followed, moving towards one of the last carriages of the locomotive. After some great difficulty, his father had shoved the case onto the train, and began carrying it around, looking for a carriage that wasn’t completely stuffed with Hogwarts students. They already had their own groups set up in seas of corresponding colors and darkened robes, laughing out each other’s names.

James had never felt lonelier in his life, knowing that he’d have to go into a compartment all by himself without either Eddie or Missy at his side.

Luckily, while the compartments seated six, they came upon a carriage with only three, very-young students sitting within it. Foggy glass was all that separated James and the others, so he pressed his nose to that, and tried to get a good look inside-- two of the children were male, wearing dark clothing that James could only assume was robes, and then other was female, her long red hair down to her elbows. Like him, she appeared to be wearing Muggle clothing, though something about her was strangely more unique than a muggle-born. Even from the smudged vision the glass was providing, James was entranced.

One of the boys had a large trunk at his feet, and while James couldn’t quite make out the words above it, his father, from wearing he was standing above him, seemed to be able to. It was after he finished reading that he began to drag James away from the door.

“Let’s find somewhere a little less crowded,” he spoke with hardly more air than a breeze, but James stopped him.

“Here’s fine, really. Some of the others are completely full, I’m fine here.” Was it because of the red head? Definitely.

With a reluctant sigh, his father helped him open the door, and let out a friendly smile towards the three children sitting there. James didn’t even get a good luck at them before he was being pulled out again for a stooped hug, his case and animals having been set near the girl. Arms wrapped around his body, and James let out a sigh, side-eyeing one of the students who was squeezing between them and the wall.

“You’ll write, won’t you?” James murmured, shoving some of his hair from his face.

“Of course. Just send Balthazar whenever you want us to. We’ll write you everyday, if need be.”

A kiss to his cheek, and then the engine gave a hollow sound, echoing through the floors. Just like that, his father was gone, and James was left to either sidle his way back back to the other children or stand lost in the middle of the train. With some struggle, he managed to lift his case up onto the rack above the velvet seats (the one across from him made as though to move to help him, but did nothing), before dropping right down into his seat, glancing around.

On the opposite side were both of the boys; he could only assume that everyone in this carriage were strangers, judging by how tense the silence was between them. One sat with grey eyes, almost watery in appearance, shorter than the rest of them. His hair was curly, just like James, lengthened on the edge, but kept in such a methodical way, as though every wave was processed out and planned that it made James suddenly conscious about his own locks, how they were splayed all about and sticking straight up. Already wearing his Hogwarts clothes, he kept silent and looked down, hands folding together; everything about him was shiny and new, and even on his case, which was tucked between the seat and fresh leather shoes, was golden, spirally writing, reading “ _Property of Sirius E. Black_ ”, followed by the outlines of what James could only assume was a family crest.

The boy next to him was unknown to James; nothing about him gave any clue as to what his name was, though his hair was stringy and long to his shoulders, and as he blinked towards James, he noticed a thin layer of sheen on his forehead. The dirtied boy gave a sniffle, and rubbed a hand past his hooked nose, robes unclean and not quite fitting him right, like he’d been to Madam Malkin’s in a hurry.

James didn’t have enough time to give the girl beside him a good look with the hooked-nosed stranger made a quiet little introduction.

“Severus Snape, first year.” It was soft, albeit nasally, and James’ stomach pitched at his tone at once. It wasn’t the sort of quiet that suggested shyness, but a reluctance to show something. Only people hiding something had that tone.

He offered out his hand for greeting, but Severus Snape didn’t take it. “Uh, James Potter. First year.”

That’s when Sirius E. Black piped up as well. “Sirius Black, first year, pureblood.”

The air crawled with silence, and Severus happened to give Sirius a particularly strange look, which both the red-head and Black pretended not to notice. To fill the edging quiet, the girl spoke, and James’ entire body melted with the sound. His entire cheeks flushed as red as her hair as he considered her, and her summer-grass eyes.

“Lily Evans, first year. Both my parents and my sister are Muggles!”

Sirius turned away, like he was hoping to say something, like he’d been urged to by a small little voice in his mind, but was thinking against it now, licking his lips several times. It was Snape who spoke again, voice just as quiet, tone just as chilling.

“Pureblood, you said, Black? Tell me, what’s it like? I’ve heard of your family. Rich, aren’t they?”

It was unclear whether Severus was being intentionally mean, but Black’s eyes clogged over, and he looked away even more; James noticed the look Lily was giving Severus (a look of displeasure), and well, if he was going to win her over now, he’d have to do something fast.

“Severus, you said?” James started out in a louder, clearer tone that was drawled out precisely like Severus’ tone. There was a sudden snap in the air as all six eyes turned towards him. Beneath, the train shuddered and began to move, chugging along slowly out of the station. “You smell like a dumpster, and you look even worse. What’s it like?”

There was a stifled noise, and it wasn’t until James looked over at Black that he noticed that he’d clapped both hands over his mouth to avoid giggling. Now Lily’s look of rage was directed… towards him.

“You’re disgusting,” she spat in his direction, and scooted several inches closer towards the wall to begin looking out the window at the passing view.

The rest of the train ride was spent in bitter, cold silence.

  
***

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments and suggestions are so welcomed! I'd love to answer questions that anyone may have, and if you find errors, please let me know. Feedback is appreciated, because feedback is what helps keep me going. Thank you very much!


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